A Stroboscopic Sky
by Kira
Summary: The late night musings of a troubled Joshua.


FF // A Stroboscopic Sky

Title: A Stroboscopic Sky

Author: Kira [tenshidejiko@yahoo.com]

Rating: PG-13, for language

Category: general, Josh POV

Author's Notes: I started this one awhile ago, and didn't really have to motivation to finish it right then, but after all the awesome and wonderful feedback I receive on Last Song on the Radio, I decided to finish this. The song is the translation from a Japanese song sung by the best Jpop artist ever, Maaya Sakamoto, and is called 'Strobo no Sora', or Stroboscopic Sky. After listening to it, I knew I had to write a fic to it. This is my first song fic, so tell me how I did. 

Summery: The late night musings of a troubled Joshua. 

~~

_It's like the brightness that hits you right after coming through a long and narrow tunnel_

_For a while it's nothing but a world of pure white_

_No-one'll wait for you to prepare yourself emotionally_

_When I noticed, it had already begun, a tale with no end_

_~~_

_ _

Its odd. The more you think about something, the more it seems to puzzle you. A weakness of human nature: over thinking something just a little too much can drive someone insane. 

Or in my case, sane. 

Not that I wasn't before. I just like to think of it as a different state of being. I was there for so long that to emerge from such a state was – well, not exactly easy. Life it self had decided to get back for all those people I've mocked and decided to pick on me itself.

Everything's been a little overwhelming in the last few weeks since I've returned to normal life. For so long I longed for these long days and the work that never seemed to end. Even when I was in so much pain I couldn't move I wished I could come into work and do something to take my mind off of everything. Donna says its because I live politics. 

I just say I was bored.

After being at home for so long, I was thrust back into this life that had been mine before, but I felt so odd, so out of place there. I found myself tired by six o'clock, my eyes heavy and my body aching to leave. It seemed only my mind was ready and up to the task at hand. And that incompatibility between mind and body was what was troubling me. 

I felt that everyone had moved on to bigger things. The shooting was in their minds, yet no longer held the space in front requiring their immediate attention. 

To be to the point, returning to work was totally overwhelming. 

Being the type of person I am (or am told I am), I said nothing and just continued on with the days, trying not to make it apparent that I didn't fit the same way anymore. I was a puzzle piece after your sister runs over it with a vacuum cleaner. I was part of the puzzle, just didn't fit right. 

No one noticed. That is, no one noticed for a while. 

It was a week and a half after I returned that Donna walked into my office and shut the door behind her, her face painted with the type of look that warns you not to frustrate her more. Of course, I'm one who enjoys to discover someone's limits and cross the line just a bit. What can I say, it's a hobby. 

"Josh, are you alright?" she asked, her voice carrying a concerned tone; one I had heard so many times over the last three months. 

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" I asked. I knew what she was talking about. The question is, does she know what she's talking about? And if so, why should I give her any more information than that which she's created herself? 

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she replied, sitting in one of the guest chairs. I'm really considering naming the chair Donna after how many times she sits in it a day.

"I wouldn't have asked a question if I didn't want a reply," I quiped, looking down at my desk. Those reports are looking very good right now. 

"Answering a question with a question might reveal more than a straight answer. What's bothering you?" she smiled. The smile seemed to contradict her eyes, which were filled with concern. 

"I didn't say anything was bothering me. Are you sure you don't need to get your hearing checked?" 

"Well, maybe, since you bellow my name so much, I think my eardrums have been permanently damaged." I look up and smile at her when she finishes saying this.

"Oh really? Are you saying I caused this damage myself?" 

"Yes, Joshua, you've cause damage to my eardrums. Now you'll have to do without me until I get them all fixed." You can't get eardrums fixed, well, maybe you can. I don't know that much about ears, other than you hear out of them and women's look nice in earrings, very nice. 

"I'll have to cope."

"Do you really think you'd be able to operate without me around?"

Uh-oh. She's back to being serious. My plan to lead her off the sent has failed. 

"Yes, I think I could."

"I think I've figured out what's wrong," she replies. I raised my eyebrows. 

"You have?" Because I haven't really. 

"Yes, I have."

"Please, enlighten me." I really want to know what she's figured out. 

"You weren't ready to come back," she states simply. 

"I was too. See, I'm trying to do work."

"I didn't say physically, although you're attempts to hide you sleepiness are really bad." 

"Really bad?"

"I'm not the one with the high verbal scores."

"Okay, now that we've got that settled, I'm going to finish what I have been trying to work on for the last ten minuets." I looked back down at my papers and try to convey the idea that I'm finished talking. She sighed and stood, knowing she doesn't stand a chance against my stubbornness. And some say it's a curse. As she opened the door, she turned her head back towards me so I can see her face. 

"Josh, I really wish you'd let me help you." 

_ _

_~~_

_I know_

_I know, the weakness I crushed in my hands_

_What was that sound that I heard at such a time?_

_~~_

She did help me. She helped me more than she could ever imagine. Just because I didn't ask for her help, didn't viably accept her help didn't mean I didn't have it. Every day she walked in the office and smiled, every time she tried to keep up what we had before our lives had been turned upside down, every time she gave me that concerned look, she was helping me. Why couldn't she understand that? Was it just a secret I knew? 

Did I want her to know?

So life went on and I got better. You know what I did? I fixed it. I faced my fears and told them to leave; I had better things to do. 

Plus, who would want to incur the wrath of Donna Moss by not getting better? 

~~

_Where is it coming from?_

_Who is calling me to stop?_

_That's the sound of life that spilled out from the body and pulsates with certainty_

_~~_

_ _

It was only after a while that I realized I was dependant on my assistant. Now, it's not the kind of dependence that most people have on their assistants. Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to live without her. 

Sometimes, when I'm alone at home and up in the middle of the night panting and sweating, I think I can hear her voice floating in from the living room, asking if I'm okay. See what I mean about dependence? Though, to be truthful, if her voice wasn't speaking to me, I don't know if I'd make it through the night. 

They might say it's not healthy, but I say without it I wouldn't be better. True I still get nightmares and such, but I know that they're going to be there whether I like it or not. And all I can do is use her voice to get through them and wake up the next morning. 

If only I'd have a nice cup of steaming hot coffee waiting for me when I got to work, then I'd be fully awake. 

I don't think anyone really realizes how much coffee can be an upper in the morning. True I'm a naturally energetic person, but coffee can't hurt anyone. Geeze, did they take books away from Von Savant? I don't think so. 

_ _

_~~_

_Those who make dreams come true_

_Those who are loved_

_Are fighting while accepting with all their being_

_Joys and equal pains_

~~

I'm becoming a little reflective now. I sit in my apartment at one in the morning, the TV on CNN, but, as always when I'm watching it, the sound is muted and all I have to know what's going on is the steaming line of headlines across the bottom of the screen. 

I don't need cable, just CNN. 

It was two days ago that Donna asked if I would let her help me. I thought all day for a witty comeback for that one, but none came to mind, so I left it at that, leaving the office at midnight without even saying goodbye to her. I think that left her a little frazzled, since the next day I couldn't go anywhere without her asking where I was going and following me there until I had to close the door without her on the same side of it as me. I know she was worried, but everyone has bad days. I don't need someone watching over my shoulder every time my goldfish dies. Okay, I don't have a goldfish, but CJ does, and she'd be in a bad mood if it died. 

Here's something I've never told Donna:

About two weeks into my recovery, I had a dream. In this dream I was just standing outside somewhere and it was nighttime, the moon shining. Donna is standing in front of me and telling me the whole shooting never happened, that everyone is happy and work is just normal. I smile and hug her, thanking her for making everything better again. 

I love that dream. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

It also makes me realize that Donna is fighting just as hard as I am to make everything in that dream come true. I have to admit that she must really care for me a lot for her to do this, to fight my battles with me. That, or she really would like that raise. 

I wonder what I did to make her care.

_~~_

_It's like the brightness that hits you right after coming through a long and narrow tunnel_

_From between the clouds the path of a new wind_

_ _

_What was that sound that unexpectedly knocked at my heart?_

_~~_

Then, as I'm reading the recent headlines across the bottom of my TV screen, it hits me. 

Maybe there's something more to that warm fuzzy feeling. Maybe I care for her the same way she cares for me, which is why I haven't asked for her help. She doesn't want to hurt me and I don't want to hurt her. I feel that if I take her full force into this spiral of sanity and insanity that I've been trapped in, I might just take her with me. 

But it doesn't look like she'll take no for an answer. Seems she has inherited some of my stubbornness. 

Not that's I'm stubborn or anything. 

Groaning, I get up for the couch and assault the kitchen, trying to find something to drink. One of the drawbacks of only seeing your house for six hours a day (at the most) and sleeping most of the time is that there really isn't anything edible or drinkable there, unless you count the can of cream of mushroom soup stuck in the back of a cabinet as something edible. I'm not a soup person. It must be left over from when Donna was here and insisted on having my cabinets fully loaded with all kinds of food. She said it was just in case.

In case of what, I still don't know. 

_ _

_~~_

_It's okay to rely on someone_

_It's okay to have more faith_

_The sound of life which continuously rings out as if to so whisper in my ear_

_~~_

_ _

Leaning against the cabinet, I examine the can, the slight dent on the top lid from when the groceries fell off the table one rainy day. The bags were slippery and Donna had put them down before they fell out of her hands and the bag containing the large assortment of soup slipped right off the table. I was laughing for days after that one. 

The ringing phone tears my attention away from the dented can, and I place it on the 70's style counter before waddling over to the phone. Yes, waddling, which means I kind of swayed side to side while taking small steps. I'm tired, cranky, and hungry. 

"'lo?" I answer. Hopefully, one earful of my tone will intimidate the caller and they'll hang up quickly. Pausing for dramatic effect, I patiently await the click and pulsing dial tone, but none comes. Instead, I hear a disappointed sigh, followed by some sort of shift. 

"Josh, what am I going to do with you?" Donna's tired yet impervious voice floats though the phone. Knowing this conversation is not going to be a normal one for this time of night, that being under ten minuets, I turn off the light and head towards the couch where I can lye down while speaking.

"Buy me a present?" I retort. Her laugh comes through. Good. See, I can be funny at times. 

"Maybe. Are you planning on sleep anytime soon?"

"Not if people keep calling me this late at night."

"I knew you'd be awake, and wanted to tell you there's a frozen dinner in the back of your freezer." I swear, she's psychic, she can read my mind. I peel myself off the couch and open the freezer, the woosh of cold air blasting me into temporary speechlessness. "I hope you know how to operate your microwave," she interjects into the silence. 

"I do."

"Right. Read the instructions on the back before guessing how to cook it and ruining it."

"Whatever." She scoffs on the other side. 

"Did you just whatever me?"

"Yup." I'm currently engrossed in the different instructions printed on the back. You can cook these things in the oven? Isn't that just against the character of a TV dinner?

"I call to help you find something to eat and you whatever me?"

"Yes, I do." I'm so cooking this in the microwave. Why would I wait 12 minuets for this to cook when I can get the same thing in 5? Some people just don't think. 

"See if I help you again," she retorts. Leaning against the counter again, I pick up the soup can while my dinner/snack is cooking (what do you call something prepared in a microwave?) and examine it again. 

"Thanks," I let out, my voice not much over a whisper. "Thanks for being there." I think I've stuck something, because Donna takes a sharp breath and leaves dead air between us. 

Let me tell you something: I hate dead air. Whether its in a conversation in person or on the phone, someone always has to be talking. Dead air means you've either run out of things to say or, in this case, something's gotten deep. I hear that in Japan, dead air means the participants are reflecting on what has been said, and is a very common part of any conversation. I don't think I'd last a week in Japan. 

Maybe that's why I'm never taken with on those kinds of trips. 

Shrugging, I move over to watch my food cook, the potatoes bubbling a bit as the butter on top of them warms up in the waves. I still don't know what this is – its not cooking, because that takes a stove or oven or something along those lines. This is like microing. Yes, that's it, I'm microing my food. 

"Josh," Donna's voice comes though, reminding me that I'm on the phone. 

"I'm microing," I reply. 

"You're what?"

"Its not cooking, its microing. I'm microing my food."

"Josh, its cooking or reheating. I don't think mircoing is a word."

"Says who? Someone's gotta coin it sometime. I should get credit for thinking it up."

"Okay, Josh."

"You're not going to steal it, are you?"

"You can keep microing."

"Good, because if I find out – "

"Don't thank me," she interrupts. Why wouldn't I thank her? 

"Why not?" Did I ever mention that I say the wrong things, or least intelligent things when I'm tired and hungry?

She doesn't say anything. 

"Donna, I'm going to. No long speech or anything, because I'm too damn tired for that. So thanks, now, can I eat in peace and go to sleep?" 

"Yes, good night, Joshua." I think I can hear her smiling on the other side of the phone. She's probably sitting on her couch in her flannel pajamas dotted with penguins with some ice cream. 

"'nite, Donnatella." She smiles again (I'm guessing), then hangs up. 

_~~_

_The fact that rainbows will disappear_

_The fact that there is moist ground_

_The miracles that I had always overlooked_

_Were shining more beautifully than anything else_

_~~_

_ _

I believe that things happen for a reason. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Most people believe that a person in my position shouldn't believe this, that I should be angry with God for what happened to me. I am, believe me, but I'm a little angry with the insurance company who's coming after me for fifty thousand dollars. You'd think I'd have better coverage being a White House employee. I don't. Damn.

My credit now has a big black mark all over it, and I'm glad my car's only a few years old and I'm already locked into my lease. Imagine if I needed something that depended on my credit – it would be hell to get. 

Maybe Donna would co-sign for me.

That's definably a thought out of left field. Though I'm glad she called. My 'snack' is very tasty, and I once again voice my support for the whole microwaving thing. Why waste time in the oven if you can make it just as good in the microwave. Something I should remember is that some people don't have microwaves, and have to cook it. Poor them. While they're waiting for it to cook, they should go buy a microwave. 

I wonder if Donna has a microwave. 

Okay, maybe I have something on my mind. Knowing every thought I have is going to be connected to Donna in some way, I resolve to go see her. I know what you're thinking – it's 1:30 in the morning and highly unprofessional. I am a little tired, that's for sure, and if I do go over there, I'll be grumpy at work tomorrow. 

Oh, hell. I haven't slept well in months. What's one more night going to do to me?

~~

_Oh, I felt like I had been forgiven for being born_

_~~_

_ _

This wasn't the best idea. 

I'm sitting outside Donna's door at 2 am, my brown overcoat slung over my pajamas. See, I would of knocked, but the lights are off and I can't hear anything inside. What kind of person would I be if I woke her up this late at night? Certainly not a nice one, and I'm trying so hard to be just that. Why aren't I home, you ask? Because, I have to admit, I got out of breath walking here (yes, I walked) in the cold weather and don't think I could make it back home tonight.

Its kind of comfortable out here, leaning against the door. 

"Hey, you!" someone calls from down the hallway. In the dim light I can see a figure approaching me. 

"Umm, hi there," I reply causally, waving with one hand. The person comes closer and reveals themselves to be Cathryne, Donna's cat-loving and club attending roommate. 

"Josh, are you drunk?" she inquires, hands on her hips. 

"No, I'm not," I retort. Do they both think so lowly of me? Slowly, I struggle to get up, my tiredness getting to me as I stumble as I do so. Cathryne reaches down to help me up, shaking her head. 

"Are you sure?" she repeats. 

"Yes, Cathryne, I'm sober. Geeze."

"Its just that you usually arrive at our apartment smashed," she confesses, unlocking and opening her door. 

"Smashed?" I question, looking up at her from my supported position. "Who over 25 uses that anymore?"

"Josh, I'm only 26," she reveals. Ahh, I knew that – I think. It doesn't really matter right now, because I've sauntered over to my usual place on the couch and think I'm going to sleep for a little bit. Sleep sounds very, very good. I knew I shouldn't of come over here. 

"Donna, Josh is here," I hear Cathryne announce into Donna's room. Oh great. I was sitting outside because I didn't want to wake her up, and now Cathryne has to go do just that. 

"Josh," Donna mumbles, her blond hair sticking up in odd angles as result of just waking up. She **is** wearing those flannel pajamas, just like I thought. "What are you doing here?"

"I – I…" Okay, what am I going to tell her? That I was thinking about her and couldn't sleep, so I came over? 

"Are you drunk?" she inquires. All right, that's the last straw. Do they think that the only reason I'd ever come over here was if I were intoxicated? What shallow minds they have. Standing slowly, I reach for the armrest to steady myself, then stand straight.

"No, I'm leaving," I declare. 

"Josh, I didn't mean it like that," Donna tries to salvage the situation. I shake my head and make my way towards the door. 

"No. I've been around for thirty minuets and the first thing out of yours and Cathryne's mouths are 'Are you drunk?' God forbid I actually came by to see you, or needed someone to talk to. So I'm not steady on my feet. Forgive me, I'm tired and a little light headed. How shallow are the both of you that you would think that instantly of me?" Donna's a little taken back and Cathryne has made her way from her bedroom to the area behind the nook. I can just see the edge of her as she stands listening. 

"I'm going home," I finish, twisting the doorknob and opening the door. Donna moves from her spot a bit, walking towards me.

"Josh, c'mon, what did you need to talk about?" she asks, her voice softer than when she greeted me earlier. 

"Its not important," I shrug. Cathryne comes from behind her hiding space to stand slightly behind Donna. 

"How long were you sitting out there?" she inquires. Donna shoots her a look. 

"Sitting where?" she asks both of us. 

"He was sitting outside out door, that's where I found him." 

"Josh," she turns back to me, her eyes holding a small degree of concern. "You were sitting outside my door?"

"I didn't want to wake you," I confess at a low level. She smiles and moves closer to me. 

"That's so sweet," Cathryne whispers. I see what's going on, they're trying to suck me in. I always wondered how women got all the dirt on their friends – they attack in packs. This reminds me a bit of the scene in Jurassic Park when the woman and the Australian guy are trying to get to the shed and the Australian gets surrounded. He sees one first, then the others come out a bam! he's outta there. 

"I'm going home, Donna. I'll see you early tomorrow morning," I let out before they can pounce on me. 

"You're a horrible liar," Donna remarks, "and it's late."

"I hadn't noticed," I retort. "Bye." Must. Get. Out. Now. I make my getaway out the door and start down the dimly lit hallway. Making my way down the stairs, I look out the clear glass lining the door to see snow falling lazily down to the battered pavement below.

I think that was thunder. 

Sighing, I pull my coat tighter around me, wish for my awesome scarf (did I mention my mother sent it to me?) and make my way into the vestibule. A car passes by and I recoil – you never know who's out and about in this neighborhood, especially this late at night. Leaning against the window, I watch the snow fall softly onto the thin layer already there. 

I should have told her why I came. It seems that lately I've been running from things. Not large things, like meetings and such at work, but personal things, like talking with people and, well, being myself. Granted, I never had much of a social life before, but now I don't have one at all. Maybe I have to take things easy; slowly make my way back into the social track. 

Starting with going back up to Donna's apartment and telling her I need a ride home. 

"Josh?" Oh no, I think she's already found me. Turning, I see her approach with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a mug of something in her hands. "You walked here, didn't you?" I raise my eyebrows. "I didn't see your car outside."

"Ahh," is all I can say. Donna's a very perceptive woman. I'd never say that out loud, but she is, and I've noticed. That's just for the record. 

"Want to come up? I can't sleep now, and it doesn't look like you can either."

"Hey, Donna, can I ask you something?" I reply instead. She looks at me quizzically, opening the inside door to the vestibule to allow me back into the warmth of the building. 

"Anything." I smile weakly and walk inside – I'd stay in the vestibule, but its kinda cold in there. I told you this building should have been condemned long ago. The lighting in the halls are so dim you can barley see at night, and I'm sure the temperature is supposed to differ between the vestibule and inside near the stairway. Did I mention the elevator went out last week for the third time this month? 

"This building sucks," I comment aloud. Donna laughs. 

"That didn't sound like a question," she retorts. 

"That's because it wasn't. I'm so glad you've finished the fourth grade. The ability to distinguish a statement from a question is important in life."

"Har har, Joshua. And I came down here to rescue you from the cold."

"You didn't – refer to my previous statement. Your building sucks, including the heat."

"The heat is fine," she states. I scoff and start up the stairs. As usual, she follows, and soon falls in step beside me. 

"Right, and you're wearing a blanket because?"

"Its cold."

"Exactly."

"I bet you wear a blanket around your apartment."

"Nope, I have a robe," I smirk. 

"You mean that tattered piece of cloth you call a robe?" 

"I've had that since I was in college."

"And it shows," she smiles this time, opening the door from the stairway to her floor. It's a gift from above that she lives on the second floor. I stop in the doorway and look at her, then at my shoes. They're so dirty, I should really clean them. 

"Do you believe that what you've done in a past life comes to haunt you in the next?" Donna's smile slides off her face. 

"No, Josh, of course not." She places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Of course not! How could you think such a thing?"

"Yeah," I said instead, running a hand through my hair, "That's what I thought."

"Josh, you did nothing wrong, nothing. It wasn't your fault, and nothing you did in a previous life is justification for these events." 

"Okay."

"You look tired, maybe you should take tomorrow off," she suggests. Me, take off work? Right, that's like, like, well, I can't think of an analogy right now, but it would show how much that just doesn't fit. "I know what you're thinking, so you are going to take a day off."

"Noon?" I try. She shakes her head. 

"Nope."

"One?" I try again. 

"Three to Nine," she forcibly suggests. 

"Tw-"

"Take it or leave it, buster," she interrupts. 

"C'mon," I start. I can't believe my assistant is dictating to me when I can go to work. Of course, I must keep in mind Donna's not the normal assistant. 

"You okay on the couch?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." We start to her door but I pause just outside. Cathryne's going to be inside, waiting to pounce on me again, though it seems she already won. 

"You know, maybe what you've done in the present saved you," Donna comments, opening the door. "You're alive."

_ _

_~~_

_Those who make dreams come true_

_Those who are loved_

_Are fighting while accepting with all their being_

_Joys and equal pains_

_~~_

_ _

Every time I've slept on this couch, I've been, well, drunk, and have never had this kind of opportunity to realize just how cushy it is. It is. I think that as couches age, they become cushier and cushier until they just fade away into pieces of moldy stuffing. Bouncing a bit, I grin and drink some more tea (Donna doesn't waste her coffee by drinking it at night). Let me tell you something, I'm not a tea person. Tea is for women who talk over brunches about their kids and how they got a stain out of their shirt in the laundry. 

"Stop bouncing, you're going to spill your tea," Donna tells me, sitting in a chair near me. 

"So?"

"Then I'll have to spend time cleaning it up."

"Again, I must say, so?"

"Ugg, Joshua, you're impossible!" To this, all I can do is smile. 

"I know," I gloat, taking another drink of my tea. She shakes her head and finishes hers, standing to take the empty mug into the kitchen. I hold my half-full one up for her to take, but she brushes on by, ignoring the upheld cup. "Hey!"

"Bring in your own glass. What do I look like, a maid?" I should have expected as much. Standing, I follow her in and place the mug on the counter next to the sink. Donna automatically picks it up to clean it, leaving me to lean against the counter and watch her work. 

"What are we going to do now?" I ask, stifling a yawn. It doesn't go un-noticed, and she dries her hands before pushing me towards the couch. 

"Sleep," she yawns, "because I'm way too tired to do anything else."

"C'mon," I whine. I can't sleep, and I don't want her to know that. She shakes her head, making her way to her bedroom. "Fine, fine, whatever," I comment, and resolve myself to lye on the couch and stair up at the ceiling. The pillow and blanket I usually use are at my feet, but I don't move to pull them up to me. Instead, I use them as a great footrest as I examine the water stains above. They remind me of a fractal, the pattern repeating again and again as it spirals down the center, creating designs that could only come from nature. 

Indeed they do, caused by the tenet above them who always lets their tub overflow. Why they placed a bathroom above a living room is beyond me, but Donna claims that these apartments, built during World War II, have character because of their odd layouts. No wonder they're cheap. 

I can argue that my apartment was built before hers and is much nicer, but she claims it doesn't have any character. She says it's too dark, which is why I don't like it there. I love my apartment, and I've never said anything against that. Maybe that's why I can't sleep there anymore. I can't seem to sleep here either. 

Groaning, I reach over and pluck the TV remote from the table and turn the TV on, careful to keep the volume down. Ahh, it's my favorite infomercial on channel 23, the one about the vacuum hair cutter. I've been thinking about purchasing it, but constantly remind myself that I'd never have the time to use it. Heck, I can't remember the last time I got a haircut. 

Normally I'd be concerned about not getting any sleep, but since my warden has decided to restrict the number of hours I'm allowed to work tomorrow, I think I can deal. 

The infomercial ends and I click off the TV, hoping that I might be able to get a little bit of sleep tonight. It's now that I pull the blanket over myself and place the pillow under my head in a haphazard way. 

Donna's apartment is so homey – I think it put me right to sleep.

_~~_

_It's like the brightness that hits you right after coming through a long and narrow tunnel_

_For a while it's nothing but a world of pure white._

_~~_

_ _

Here's a moment of reflection, as if I haven't been reflecting on things already. Emotions and the reflections of self aren't exactly my thing, I tend to stray away from them in the fear that I might do or say something I'll regret later. 

I think I might be okay. Really, I do. Before it was too early for me to return, but it wasn't too early because I hadn't recovered mentally already, which I haven't, it was too early because I wasn't ready to jump back into the relationships I'd had before. While recovering, I was kept away from everyone, and used this excuse to distance myself from everyone. I don't know if you can imagine how I felt after being assaulted, as I did, how I didn't want to see anyone. 

In true, I didn't want anyone to see me. 

I don't like people seeing my weaknesses. I'm the big strong guy full of himself. I'm not a weakling who can't even walk or, as of now, sleep. Weaknesses set you up for attacks of character and integrity, two things I can't afford to be attacked on with the job I hold. These ideas of attacks from enemies filtered into ideas of being attacked by friends. 

A fear of rejection. 

Bingo, I think I finally solved all my problems. At least, if I were speaking to anyone right now. I don't think I've solved them yet, but I have a pretty good idea. 

You know, sleep comes easier now. Especially since I know Donna is close. I'm ready to face the day tomorrow, even though I'm only going to be there for six hours. 

Well, that's what she thinks. 

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End file.
